


What We Leave Behind

by forensicleaf



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Baby Parker-Jones, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Peter Parker is a Good Dad, Serious Injuries, Tony Stark is a Good Dad, and a good grandad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forensicleaf/pseuds/forensicleaf
Summary: Tony gets straight to the point. “What happened?”Instead of an answer he gets the sound of Benji wailing down the line—huge, inconsolable sobs that Tony can hear Michelle trying frantically to shush. It launches his panic straight into the goddamn stratosphere.“Michelle! MJ, talk to me, what’s going on?”“Tony,” Michelle says, voice cracking. “Thank god. It—shh shh, Benji, come here, it’s okay, it’s okay. Tony, it’s Peter.”
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 117
Kudos: 469
Collections: Peter Parker is a Good Dad





	What We Leave Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).



> For seek, matriarch of the 'Peter Parker is a good dad' club! Thank you for suggesting this challenge and sorry it's late!
> 
> Endless thank yous to blondsak for betaing and helping me find direction with this when it got a little lost, and for just being an all-round awesome human being! <3

Tony knows it’s bad news before he even looks at the phone. The buzzing of it on the bedside table is what draws him up out of sleep; the fact that it’s the middle of the night—and no one ever calls with good news in the middle of the night—pulls him the rest of the way to alertness. 

He squints through the darkness at the name on the screen. 

It says _Michelle._

A cold wave of panic sweeps over him as he swipes to answer, because he knows there’s only one reason Michelle would be calling him at this sort of time, and that reason makes his heart jump straight into his throat. 

Something is wrong. 

He does away with pleasantries and jumps straight to the point. “What happened?”

Instead of an answer he gets the sound of Benji wailing down the line—huge, inconsolable sobs that Tony can hear Michelle trying frantically to shush. It launches his panic straight into the goddamn stratosphere.

“Michelle! MJ, talk to me, what’s going on?”

At his side, Pepper stirs. She pushes herself up when she realises he’s on the phone, sitting higher still when she notices the tension of his body. Her warm, concerned hand lands on his arm, but Tony barely feels it over the pounding rush of blood under his skin. 

“Tony,” Michelle says, voice cracking. “ _T_ _hank god_. It—shh shh, Benji, come here, it’s okay, it’s okay. Tony, it’s Peter.”

Tony had already known that was what she was going to say—of course that’s what she was going to say, how could it be anything else?—but the moment he hears it confirmed, he’s throwing off the covers and striding over to the dresser. 

“How bad?” he asks, rifling through the drawers for some clothes—jeans, sweatpants, that Hawaiian shirt Morgan bought him as a joke, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now but what’s going on at the other end of the line.

“Bad.” Michelle’s voice quakes. “It’s bad. I’ve never—god, I don’t even know how he made it home. There’s so much blood and he—” she sucks in a shuddering breath, falling to an almost whisper. “Tony, I can’t wake him up.”

Tony’s head is starting to swim by this point, but he somehow manages to keep it together. “Is he breathing?” he asks, hastily pulling on jeans with one hand. He sees Pepper’s face drain of all its colour across the room at the question. 

“Yes. I think so. I don’t—” A pause, entirely too long, in which Tony feels his own lungs start to seize, and then, “Yes. Yes, but...it’s not...”

“Okay,” Tony says. _Breathing_ in any capacity is good; breathing, he can work with. “Michelle, listen, here’s what you’re gonna do: call for an ambulance.”

A beat of stunned silence, then, “ _What?_ _No_. Tony, no hospitals. That’s why I called you.”

“I know. I know. I’ll get it re-routed. Don’t worry about that. We’ll deal with the rest of the can of worms later, but right now, you need to call 911.”

“And tell them what?” Michelle’s voice is sharp with panic. “Spider-man’s passed out in my house?—shh, Benji, I know, I know, it’s okay.”

“Anything,” Tony says. “Hit and run, mugging, robbery gone wrong—whatever you have to say to get them there. Can you get him out of the suit?”

A short sob that could almost be a laugh if not for the gravity of the situation. “There’s hardly any suit left.”

Tony closes his eyes. Breathes out steadily.

“I’m on my way,” he says. “Listen, MJ. It’s gonna be fine. He’s gonna be fine.”

* * *

Peter is not, in fact, _fine,_ nor any semblance thereof until at least a good eight hours later. 

After seeing the list of injuries the doctors pass his way, Tony has to agree with Michelle’s earlier sentiments: he has no idea how the hell the kid managed to make it home before his body crapped out on him. His entire right side is shattered; there’s a clean snap across his tibia and fibula, a splintered femur that’s nicked the wall of the artery running alongside it, a fractured orbital socket, an arm that’s broken in two places, and more cracked and broken ribs than not—one of which has inconveniently decided to poke a hole in its neighbouring lung. Factor in the smorgasboard of internal bleeding and it’s… a lot, to say the least. 

Still, Tony doesn’t pay the crisis team he has on hand for their good looks. They more than earn the cost of their employment tonight, jumping into action the second the ambulance arrives, assessing the situation with lightning speed, and—after six hours of surgery, featuring a couple of close calls and almost the entire stock of _Parker, P._ blood stored on site—sticking the landing by finally making their way into the waiting room and informing the crowd of anxious people hovering there that Peter is going to be okay.

“He’s very lucky,” Dr Palmer says solemnly. “Without his enhancements I don’t think he would have made it. Even with them, it was touch and go for a while. He’ll make a full recovery, but you should know it’s going to be a long and extensive one--particularly with the leg. He’s going to need a lot of support.”

Well, Tony thinks, it’s a good thing Peter Parker’s got a whole host of people willing to provide that in spades.

They still have to wait another hour and a half before they’re allowed in to see him—post op checks and the like—but this stretch of time is not undercut with the same writhing tension of the last: hearing that Peter pulled through has been like a return of air to the room, and finally, finally, they can all start to breathe again.

Happy heads out to find some form of sustenance (all of them suddenly realising just how long six hours is when the pangs of empty stomachs are no longer eclipsed by the stabbing nausea of worry), and May takes a sleepy and cranky Benji from Michelle while she heads to the restroom to rid her hands of the dried blood that everyone has spent the night trying very hard not to look at. Tony makes a series of calls—first to Pepper, to whom he relays the positive news, and then to Morgan, who’s just getting ready for morning class over on the west coast.

His third and final call goes to Hannah, the world’s most valuable fixer for all things superhero related. When Peter had remained firm on his stance of keeping his civilian identity on the down low, this had been the one concession Tony had insisted on in return—that Peter agree to having someone on hand to manage any potential exposure and help limit the damage when inevitable damage was done. For the last ten years, Hannah has been that person, and as Tony listens to her tell him how she’s already handling last night’s events, already making calls to the press, sniffing out what they know, trying to put a hold on the story breaking and doing everything she can to make sure there’s no link between the as-of-yet-undisclosed super-powered showdown in Midtown and an ambulance being called to the Parker-Jones’ house, well, Tony finds himself hoping she never steps down. 

By the time all that’s out of the way Happy has returned with a bag of assorted bagels which everyone is quick to devour. Everyone except Michelle, that is, who nibbles at her bread, looking like every bite she takes is an effort and every swallow a battle. Belatedly, and with a heavy influx of guilt, Tony realises that this is the first time since she and Peter got married, since they started a family, that they’ve been here. And it’s the first time in a long time Peter has been hurt this badly.

He glances up, catches May’s eye, and sees that she has realised the same. 

“Honey.” May reaches out. Her hand closes on Michelle’s knee and Michelle blinks at her, like she’s once again realising she isn’t alone in the room. “You need to eat. You heard Dr Palmer, Peter’s going to be fine.” 

Michelle lets out a breath, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. He’s always fine, right? I just… I want to see him.”

May’s smile is one of understanding. “It won’t be much longer, I’m sure.”

Again, Michelle nods, but she drops the bagel back into its bag, unfinished. Her arm tightens around Benji, who is snoozing in her lap after finally grumbling himself into a doze about half an hour ago. “I don’t understand,” she says to no one in particular. “What happened? What could do that to him?” 

Nobody has an answer, but they’ve all been wondering the same thing. Peter isn’t a kid anymore—he’s an adult, a father, an accomplished and competent hero in his own right. He has long-grown into his abilities and strengths, wearing them now like a second skin. There are still times when things go wrong, of course—cracked ribs here, a split lip there, or even the occasional graze from something a bit more dangerous than fists—but bad guys don’t just get the better of Spider-man these days. This kind of thing doesn’t just _happen_ to him. Not anymore.

So what did?

It’s a question that will have to go unanswered for the moment, because it’s then that the waiting room doors swing open and Christine reappears, smiling warmly.

“He’s ready now, if you want to come see him.” 

* * *

It was explained to them on the way down to the room that Peter would probably be out for a while, but it’s still unnerving to see him so motionless as they gather around his bed. 

To Tony, the silence and solemnity of the room feels too close to attending a wake for comfort, and the bruises and bandages and pallor of Peter’s skin besides only serve to enhance that morbid vision. He’d had the rundown of injuries from Christine earlier, but hearing it and seeing it are two different things, and seeing it, Tony realises it really is bad.

It’s too much for May, who uncharacteristically excuses herself from the room with welling eyes—closely followed by Happy, who looks a little choked himself—but Michelle seems to come back to herself at her husband’s bedside, as if all she had needed was to verify with her own eyes that Peter was alive and breathing, no matter the rest of his state, before she could begin to process.

“I could kill you,” she tells his prone form, before leaning down and pressing a light kiss to his forehead, to a small patch of skin unmarred by scrapes or bruising.

“Maybe give him a bit of time to recover first,” Tony suggests with a levity he doesn’t truly feel. “Seems like it would be kind of an unfair fight right now.”

Michelle lets out a reflexive laugh, but she quickly sobers, thumbing gently at Peter’s temple. “I can’t even be mad at him, really. We both knew something like this could happen at some point. I’m just glad...” She presses her lips together. Her eyes meet Tony’s. “Thank you,” she says sincerely. “For all of this. Really, I don’t know what we would have done.”

Tony shakes his head. “Anything you need, Michelle, I mean it. There are rooms upstairs if you want to stay close by. If you need to take time off work I can help with that, too.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I do. You’re family. But more than that, I want to. And you know, if you need someone to watch Benji for a bit, Pepper would be more than willing to take him off your hands. You know how she’s been since Morgan moved out.”

Against all odds, a small smile. “Just Pepper?”

“Quite sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Michelle sends a knowing look his way. She shakes her head. “I’m actually sorted with Benji, but thank you. I called my mom—I’m going to take him there. My parents don't live too far from here.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“He’s been passed around so many people tonight, I think he needs to be somewhere familiar. And close. He needs a few hours in a proper bed.”

“You, too,” Tony says, head inclining towards the dark shadows under Michelle’s eyes, the way her weight leans into the edge of the bed unconsciously.

Michelle's smiles, tired. “Yeah, me too.”

“I can stay with him,” Tony tells her, gesturing to Peter and the unoccupied visitor chair against the wall. “This is old hat by now, anyway.” Plus, it makes sense for him to take first watch—a glance around as the group slowly shuffled down from the waiting room had made it clear he was the only one who wasn’t dead on his feet. A lifetime of burning the candle at both ends hasn’t been for nothing, it seems; he’s happy to be the one to stay. “Besides, been a while since me and the kid got a chance to hang out.”

“You hang out all the time.”

“I like the guy, sue me.”

Michelle hesitates. She looks back at Peter. Rests her hand lightly over his chest. “He’s going to be okay.” 

It isn’t a question, but it sounds a lot like she’s trying to convince herself, trying to will it into being true.

Tony says, “He’s gonna be okay. Christine knows what she’s talking about, trust me.”

Reluctantly, Michelle drags her eyes away from her husband. “A couple of hours,” she says, cautious. “Just to get Benji settled. And I’m only going to be ten minutes away. If… if anything happens...”

Tony nods. “I’ll call you. Go.”

Michelle kisses Peter’s forehead once more, and then, to Tony’s surprise, instead of leaving she crosses the room and brings her arms around him in a hug. It’s not the first time, but these embraces are rare between the two of them, both he and she tending to lean more toward the snarky, distant kind of affection with each other. Still, it’s far from unwelcome, especially after tonight. Tony pats her back gently.

He clears his throat as she pulls away. “Go on, go get your munchkin before that cute nurse you left him with decides to kidnap him. We don’t need another crisis on our hands tonight.”

“She’d bring him back as soon as he started talking,” Michelle says, mouth quirking up at the corner.

Tony snorts. “Must be a Parker thing.”

Once Michelle has gone, he drags the cushioned chair over to Peter’s bedside and takes a seat. He’s already made all his phone calls and Peter is still out, as they were all assured he would be for the foreseeable future, so Tony pulls out his phone and settles in to do a little investigating. Namely, trying to figure out what the hell happened out there to land Peter in his current position. The thought that something even _could_ has been weighing on him all night. It’s more than a little disconcerting. 

Given that the story hasn’t broken the news yet, there’s not a lot to go on, but FRIDAY manages to find a few grainy cell phone videos on various reddit threads that Tony stitches together into something he can work with. Most of the footage isn’t useful at all—just lightning-quick flashes of red and blue—but a forty-seven second clip uploaded by one ‘Spi-hard997’ proves a little more fruitful.

Tony is expecting some loon dressed in a gaudy costume, as a disproportionate amount of the people Peter goes up against seem to be, but this isn’t that at all. He almost doesn’t see it at first, so seamless is the camouflage between it and the darkness, but when he does, he leans in closer, eyes narrowing at the screen. There, creeping out of the shadows is a figure—a hulking black mass that somehow manages to look both solid and viscous at the same time, like a tractor tyre coated in tar. 

Hair rises on the back of Tony’s neck. 

“FRI, what am I looking at, here?” he murmurs quietly. Something about the way the thing moves makes his stomach twist into a writhing ball of unease. It’s not human. It’s not animal, either. It doesn’t look earthly in the slightest.

FRIDAY’s reply is not reassuring.

_“Sorry, boss. This is a new one for me, too.”_

On the screen, the thing continues to advance, fluid and dense and... _predatory_. There’s no other way to describe it. Tony’s never seen anything like it, and after watching the way it slams Peter into the side of a building, crumbling brick and mortar into dust and leaving a Spider-man shaped hole behind, he hopes neither he or the kid will ever have to again.

Tony’s eyes go to the bed. Whatever this thing was, it sure did a number on Peter. It was a close call. He glances over Peter’s leg, held together (“Temporarily,” Christine had promised. “Just to give his healing factor a helping hand and make sure everything mends correctly.”) with pins and screws and a large metal frame that encompasses the limb from near enough hip to ankle. On top of that, there’s the arm—set in a temporary cast while they wait for the swelling to go down enough for a more long-term one—and the ribs and cracked eye socket, for which there isn’t really anything that can be done. 

Of all things, it’s the mottled black bruising that circles Peter’s eye that most makes Tony want to throw fists. 

He’s not that person anymore—too old, too tired, too...settled, _happy_ —but seeing his kids hurt always reawakens that instinct to jump straight into one of those suits of his and hurt something right back. He pushes that instinct down, though. For now, the only important thing is the kid lying battered and bruised in the bed beside him. For now, all he needs to do is be exactly where he is.

He has FRIDAY save all of the footage of that… _thing_ to his private servers, buries the forum threads, and then he swallows hard and puts the phone and the monster within it back into his pocket, to be re-visited at a later time.

“You gotta stop doing this to us, bud,” he tells Peter quietly. “You know my heart isn’t what it used to be.”

Peter doesn’t answer. Tony watches the dips and valleys that slide across the heart rate monitor, the faint fogging of the mask strapped down over his face. _Alive,_ he reassures himself. It’s the bare minimum, but it makes all the difference. 

For a long while there is nothing but the muted beeps of machinery and the constant quiet hiss of oxygen, interrupted only by a visit from a nurse who checks over Peter’s vitals. A short while after that, though, May comes back, pale and worried, but looking far steadier than she did before. 

“Hey,” Tony greets her.

“Hey. Any change?”

“Not yet.”

“Michelle?”

“Taking Benji to her parents’.”

May nods. She steps into the room, up to Peter’s bedside. She reaches out a hand toward her nephew, her fingers brushing across his cheek. “I was starting to forget what this was like,” she says. “I wish I didn’t have to remember.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, you and me both.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then May says, “How many times have we been here, now, Tony?”

Him and May, watching over Peter while he recovers from a beat-down from god knows what? All the sleepless nights and tired eyes and countless cups of coffee swim through Tony’s head like a highlight reel. “Too many.”

“Too many,” May agrees. She looks down at Peter. Her eyes pinch with sadness. “I shouldn’t have left earlier. I can normally handle this, as horrible as that sounds, but this time… sometimes I forget how young he still is. How young they both are, him and Michelle, and with little Benji, now…”

She’s looking at Peter and seeing a husband gone far before his time, Tony realises. She’s thinking of Michelle and seeing a woman widowed too many years too early; in Benji, a boy growing up with grief as his guide. He swallows, not sure what to say. ‘ _He’s going to be okay’_ sounds a hollow promise, ‘ _he’s not going to end up like his uncle’_ crass and cold and inappropriate, and both options are far too certain for how close of a call things were this time. 

“He’s still here,” he says, simply.

“Yeah. He is.” Her eyes trail over Peter’s sleeping form, down to the horrific-looking contraption surrounding his leg and taking up half the lower-bed. “It’s probably best he sleeps for a while, actually. That leg isn’t going to be any fun at all when he wakes up.” Her mouth twists. “God. Do you know how much force it takes to break a femur? It’s all my brain keeps coming back to. It’s all I can think about.”

A small ball of nausea rolls in Tony’s stomach. He knows exactly how much force it takes to break a femur. And he knows that it would take a lot more than the usual to break one of Peter’s. 

He also knows that May’s question isn’t what she’s really asking.

“I don’t know what it was,” he tells her. “The thing that did this, I’ve never seen it before, and he’s never mentioned it. Not to me.”

More than defensive, his words come out hurt. It’s not his job to keep an eye on everything Peter’s up to anymore—and far from his place to be reporting it all back to May these days, either—but he can’t help but feel stung at the fact that Peter had kept something like this from him. Not when it was something that could do... this. 

May looks at Peter with a sad smile. “No, he wouldn’t, would he? Always trying so hard not to burden anyone else. Always taking so much on on his own. I wish he’d just let someone help him for once.”

Tony grimaces. “He’s not going to have much of an option for the foreseeable, I think.”

“Definitely not,” May agrees. “He’s going to be sick of the sight of us all, I’m sure. But he’s just going to have to deal with it.”

She pulls up the second visitor chair alongside Tony. And together, as they have so many times before, they wait.

* * *

Michelle returns as the sun is just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting stripes of light through the room. She falters slightly in the doorway: in the burgeoning light of day, there’s no disguising the brutality rained down on Peter’s body the night before. Everything seems highlighted, somehow—the bruises, the cuts, all the metal holding his leg together. May and Tony have had some time to adjust to it over the past couple of hours. Michelle has not.

She swallows. Turns her eyes away from the bed and to May and Tony. “You guys look like crap,” she says, voice hoarse.

She’s not wrong, Tony thinks. May has bags under her eyes and her face is pale and washed out, and if May Parker can manage to look inelegant, then by now, he must look like shit.

May says, “Did you get everything sorted?”

“Yeah. My parents are going to take care of Benji for a couple of days, so I can be here.” Michelle steps up to Peter’s bedside. She presses a kiss to Peter’s forehead—that same unmarred spot as before. “Hi,” she whispers. To them: “No change?”

“Nothing yet,” Tony says. “You know Pete, he lives on his own schedule.”

“How’s Benji?” May asks. 

Michelle sighs. She perches on the arm of May’s chair, May shifting to give her room. “He’s asleep now, but it took a while. Peter’s usually the one that reads to him. Before he goes out, you know?” She looks over to her husband. “He was asking a lot of questions. Why this, why that. I didn’t really know what to say. You’d think this was something we would have talked about, but we just never got around to it. Maybe we were hoping we wouldn’t have to. I don’t know.”

“It’ll be okay,” May says.

“Yeah, Benji’s a smart kid,” says Tony. “He’ll be fine.”

Michelle’s mouth quirks up, but her eyes are flat. “Yeah.”

“Hey, are _you_ okay?” 

Michelle scoffs, softly. “I will be, once my stupid husband decides to open his eyes.”

On that, they can all agree.

* * *

Over the next two days, they all take turns sitting by Peter’s bedside, splitting the time into shifts. Peter spends all of it frustratingly asleep.

Dr Palmer reassures them that even given his usual habit of bouncing back much quicker than this, there isn’t anything to be concerned about; considering the injuries Peter had been subjected to and the amount of painkillers he’s on, he’s doing better than expected, actually. Not to worry, she tells them, he’ll come around in his own time. Still, Tony, along with everyone else, finds himself preoccupied with how long it’s taking.

He starts talking at the kid when it’s his turn to sit at his bedside. And talking and talking and talking. Maybe he’s trying to annoy Peter into consciousness, he doesn’t know. 

“C’mon, kid. How long are you gonna keep us all in suspense?” he tries. Nothing. “Did you know they just announced Episode XIV of Star Wars?” A lie, but Tony knows how to rile the kid. Or at least he thought he did; Peter doesn’t so much as twitch. “Suit yourself, sleeping beauty.”

He’d driven back up to the house yesterday morning to pick up some clothes and supplies and kiss his wife, but he’s essentially moved into the suite upstairs for the time being. As such, he has taken to offering himself up for the night shifts, which is where he finds himself tonight, feet propped up on the spare chair and Die Hard 9 playing on the T.V on mute. 

“Why did they keep making these?” he asks the room. “Seriously. Should have ended it after three. Three’s a good number.”

More than the movie, he catches himself watching the steady rise and fall of Peter’s chest—steadier now than the day before, which means his ribs must be on the way to knitting themselves back together. The bruising around his eye has gone down some since yesterday, too, turning green at the edges, and the swelling in the arm has reduced enough that a proper cast has now been fitted. Unfortunately, the leg is the biggest problem, and it’s one that isn’t going away any time soon by the looks of things. Still, positive thoughts.

Tony scoffs as he watches John McClane steer a craft out of the path of the ISS. “Ridiculous. Seriously, how old is Bruce Willis now, anyway? Ninety?”

He looks to the bed, half expecting a sideways glance from Peter and a dry, _how old are_ you _?_ , but there’s only the timely puffs of breath against plastic and the metronome of Peter’s heartbeat, broadcast into the room. 

Tony swallows. For a split second, he’d almost forgotten. “Right.”

The terrible movie ends, and after another couple of hours of sustained silence from the bed beside him, Tony finds himself slipping lower and lower into his chair. He’s teetering on the cusp of an awkwardly positioned nap when his eyes are drawn up by movement. 

At first he thinks it’s just tiredness making him see things, because Peter is as still as ever. But then he sees the flickering eyelids. 

Peter is starting to stir. 

_Finally._

His eyebrows furrow and his breathing deepens for just a moment before those pesky ribs make their discomfort known and force it shallow again. When his eyes open, they lazily scan the room until at last landing on Tony. Tony’s throat goes tight at the sight of his right eye—the sliver of which he can see through all the swelling shot through entirely with red.

“Tony?” Peter mumbles, and Tony forces a smile onto his face. No matter how old Peter gets, this never gets any easier.

“Hey Pete. Back in the land of the living?”

Peter blinks, unfocused gaze sliding away, then back, then away and back again. “Hmm. I’m… I’m...”

“On the good stuff, yeah,” Tony explains as he pushes the call button to let the staff know Peter is awake. “Don’t try too hard.”

Peter nods. “Hmm.” 

“Try not to move too much, either.”

“Hmm,” Peter says again, eyes sliding closed. For a minute, Tony thinks that’s it and he’s gone back to sleep, but then, a quiet murmur: “MJ?”

“She’s around—May and Hap, too.”

Peter’s mouth turns down. “Ben?” he asks. “‘s Ben okay? I heard…” His good hand twitches. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. “Mmm...when I...”

“Benji’s fine Pete. He was there, yeah, but he’s fine. Totally fine.”

That doesn’t seem to be the reassurance Tony intended it to be, though. Peter shifts, a hiss escaping through bruised and swollen lips as he does. He shakes his head.

“‘s not... not fine,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut. “‘S not fine.”

Tony frowns. 

“Pete,” he says, but it’s too late: Peter’s face is already relaxing, lines of pain smoothing out as he drifts off again.

While Dr Palmer is checking everything over, Tony fires off a quick text to Michelle to let her know Peter had woken, albeit briefly. He doesn’t get a reply, remembering belatedly that it’s the middle of the night, and contemplates calling, but while Peter _was_ awake, he isn’t now, and Tony knows Michelle needs the rest, what with splitting her time between the hospital and taking care of Benji. He fires off a second text, relaying what Christine tells him— _Unlikely to wake again for a while. Don’t rush._ —and hunkers back down into his chair.

He jerks upright to the sound of the door opening. 

Blinking rapidly, he twists to see Michelle stepping over the threshold, carrying two steaming cups. Early morning sun cuts through the blinds and casts stripes across the floor. Tony scrubs a hand over his face, groaning a little. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. “Shift change already?”

“Looks like you’re about ready for it,” says Michelle.

“Just resting my eyes.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” She hands him one of the cups. “Latte, extra shot, right?”

Tony takes it gratefully, breathing in the smell of freshly brewed coffee. “Michelle, Michelle, you are an angel. Have I told you that recently?”

“When I helped you fix that disaster of a dinner you made Pepper for your anniversary, yes.”

“Well then let me say it again.”

Michelle sends him an appreciative smile, placing her own cup on the table as she shrugs out of her coat. She makes her way over to Peter. Her hand rests gently on his chest for a moment in greeting, just over his heart, before she pulls it away. “He was awake?” she asks, looking down. It’s hard to believe it, given the unchanged position of Peter’s limbs and persistent pallor to his skin, even for Tony, who was there when it happened.

“For a minute, yeah. Christine was by, she said that’s how it’ll probably be for a while—in and out—but everything looks good.”

Michelle nods. Quietly, “Was he in pain?”

Tony thinks of that shift, that hiss, Peter’s eyes squeezed shut in a grimace. “He didn’t say it—you know what he’s like—but I could tell. They’ve adjusted the meds so it won’t be so bad next time, hopefully.”

“He was talking, though? Did he seem...okay? I mean aside from the relative agony of a skeleton re-fusing itself.”

Tony clicks his tongue. “He seemed like Pete,” he says. “Worried about everyone but himself.”

A fond shake of the head. “Yeah, that does sound like him. Idiot.”

“Who’s ‘n idiot?” comes a faint slur from the bed, surprising them both. Peter is lying there blinking slowly, eyes rolling a little as he tries to pull himself all the way to consciousness. The bleariness in his eyes along with the dopey smile that grows on his face when he realises it’s Michelle standing over him tells Tony the painkillers are doing their job at least somewhat better than before.

Tony leans forward. “Hey. Think that’d be you, bud. Welcome back.”

“It’s definitely you,” Michelle confirms. 

Peter doesn’t argue, just lifts his good hand. It waves around in the air until it finds his wife’s, their fingers interlocking. “Hey.”

“Hey there, loser,” Michelle says, voice soft. “How’re you feeling?”

“Mmm. High.” Peter breathes a laugh. Winces. “Sore.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Really did a number on yourself this time, Pete,” says Tony.

“Did?” Peter murmurs. A flash of pain crosses his face. “Ow, yeah. Leg hurts.” 

“Yeah, that makes sense.” 

Peter raises his head very slightly, looking down the length of his body. He blinks at the metal frame. “Oh. ’m an android.”

“Cyborg,” Michelle corrects. “Android is a machine made to look human. You’d be a cyborg, technically. Like Tony.”

Peter's brow furrows. “Oh. ‘s right. I knew that.” 

“More like Forrest Gump,” Tony adds. “Sorry, you don’t get to join our club. Not with that contraption. But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stretch to a day pass.”

“Oh,” Peter says again, like he didn’t really follow any of that. He’s still staring down at the screws and sheets of metal around his leg.

“It’s temporary,” Michelle tells Peter. “Just until the bones have healed some.”

“Yeah, you’ll be back to your boring self in no time.”

Michelle throws Tony a look. To Peter she says. “For the record, I like your boring self. More boring, please. Less of this. Always.”

Peter nods, head falling back to the pillow and eyes sliding closed. He squeezes Michelle’s hand. “Sorry,” he says. Then, “Broke th’window.”

“What window?” asks Tony.

“In the house,” Michelle explains. “The other night. Don’t worry about it, Pete.”

Tony frowns at that. He thinks back, but he doesn’t remember any mention of a broken window. “He did? You didn’t say anything. Michelle, I would’ve—”

She smiles. “I know you would have, but my dad already took care of it. It’s fine. _You_ don’t worry, either.”

“Good ol’ Hank,” Peter murmurs. “Always… fixin’... things.” He frowns. “What’d he fix, again?”

Michelle snorts. “Doesn’t matter.” She cups his cheek, gentle. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

Peter _hmm_ s. “Glad you're… yeah. You.”

“Eloquent as ever,” says Tony.

“‘m high. Leave me ‘lone,” is Peter’s comeback, and honestly, it’s not one Tony can argue with. Peter blinks a few times, slow. “Hey, Em? Sorry I broke the window.”

“Forget about the window, you weirdo. It doesn’t matter, okay?”

“‘kay. Sorry.”

“And stop saying sorry.”

“S’ry,” Peter says, mouth lifting on one side as a small breathy laugh escapes. And then he sobers, something coming over his face. He swallows, once, twice. “Em, ‘m sorry. ‘m… ‘m really sorry.”

“Pete,” Michelle starts fondly, but Peter cuts her off. 

“Benji saw.”

Michelle’s shoulders tense. There’s a pause, and then she sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, he did. Not much, though—I might have been going out of my mind, but I was careful about that. Honestly, I think he mostly got a shock from all the noise. You know how he is.”

Peter doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head. 

“Hey, tiger, he’s _fine_ , I promise. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“No. Don’t… don’t bring him.”

“What?”

“Don’t bring him.”

“Peter...”

Peter turns away. “Scared him,” he mumbles. “I scared him.” And then, like the flip of a switch, his face crumples and he starts to cry.

Michelle actually takes a half-step back in surprise. “What?” she says. “Pete, no. You didn’t...” She turns to Tony, expression stuck somewhere between _what the hell?_ and _help me_ as Peter’s chest hitches with shallow, pained sob-breaths. 

If holding vigil at an injured Peter’s bedside is oddly nostalgic, this is just as much so. Tony, unfazed by the sudden waterworks, points wordlessly to the multitude of equipment at Peter’s bedside. Michelle’s eyes follow his finger, and comprehension dawns on her face when she takes in the bag hanging from the IV stand and the tube attached to it, feeding its contents directly into Peter’s bloodstream.

She looks down at her husband, a soft laugh on her lips. 

Gently, with the pad of her thumb, she swipes away the tears on his cheeks. “You’re ridiculous. I love you.”

“I’m going to let them know he’s awake,” Tony tells her, and then he slips out of the room, leaving them to it. 

* * *

The following day is full of much of the same: sleep, and short periods of wakefulness that consist of confusion, trail-off sentences, and tears. But as amusing as a drugged-up Peter is, it doesn’t last for long, and neither do the drugs. Eventually, Peter’s system starts to plough through the painkillers like there’s no tomorrow, which is both a blessing and a curse: a blessing, because sober, the doctors are able to rule out any lingering damage from all the head trauma; a curse because now that Peter is more aware, he’s also more aware of just how much pain he’s in. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

The drugs are definitely still helping, but not enough. The way Peter’s already-pale face leeches of all colour every time an awkward shift of position pulls at his leg has Tony perpetually wincing in sympathy, cursing that in fifteen years they still haven’t found anything strong enough to fully combat the kid’s freaky spider metabolism. 

_Sorry, bud, you’re maxed out already,_ becomes his most-used phrase; _Yeah, I know. This just sucks,_ Peter’s. There’s nothing to be done except wait it out and hope that Peter’s speedy healing takes care of things sooner rather than later.

Tony can already tell that Peter is climbing the walls about, well, not being able to climb the walls, even after just a couple of days, but there’s really not much to be done about that other than distraction, which Tony happens to be a dab hand at. It helps that in distracting Peter, he’s also distracting himself in a way; curbing the pressing need to ask Peter about the creature, monster, _thing_ that put him here. It occupies his thoughts, leaving a low-level dread that only rises every time he looks at Peter and remembers that the thing is _still out there,_ but he stows his curiosity. No matter what time of the day it is, Peter always looks tired, eyes heavy and smudged underneath with dark shadows that have nothing to do with the fading bruising there. The last thing Tony wants to do is add to that.

He manages just fine with letting the topic rest for a couple of days, but that all goes out of the window the morning he turns into Peter’s room and almost collides with the person coming out.

“Whoa,” he says, a moment before he registers the perfectly-styled blond hair and the familiar faint aroma of smoke that seems to always follow it around. “Oh.”

“Tony, good to see you,” Johnny Storm says, effortlessly side-stepping out of Tony’s path.

“Hmm. Likewise,” says Tony, knowing he sounds completely insincere and not really giving a shit. He does at least manage to rein in the petty _what the hell are you doing here?_ , though, so that’s something.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just on my way out.”

“What a shame, I heard the nurses were just about to bring round the colouring books.”

Johnny’s smile is irritatingly genuine and just as irritatingly perfect. “Ha. Good to see you, too, old man.” He turns, throws a wave Peter’s way. “Catch you later, webs.”

From his hospital bed, Peter raises a lazy hand in a half-wave back. 

Tony scowls after Storm’s retreating form and then steps into Peter’s room. “What was Sidepiece doing here?” he asks. “Does your wife know?”

Peter rolls his eyes. Well, he rolls one eye. The other’s come down a lot, but is still too swollen to do much of anything. “Tony, c’mon,” he says tiredly. “What’s he ever done to you?”

“You mean besides turn my tower into the playboy mansion?”

“It’s hardly the—never mind. He’s just helping me out with something.”

Tony sits down, clears his throat. Now or never. “That _something_ wouldn’t have anything to do with the something that landed you in here, now, would it?”

Instantly, Peter stiffens. He looks at Tony, and his eyes are haunted. He breathes in deeply, or at least as deeply as his still-healing ribs allow. “Did you see it?”

“I saw it,” Tony says. “Alien?” He knows even before Peter starts to slowly nod that he’s right. He’s had time to think about it, and now with Storm and presumably the other three of the Four getting involved, it couldn’t be anything else.

The way it had moved, it couldn’t be anything else.

“It called itself—” Peter hesitates. 

“Hang on. It called _itself_?” 

Tony is unfortunately no stranger to extraterrestrial life. Since the attack on New York, things have only proceeded to get wackier—turns out humans aren’t the only, nor the most intelligent species in the cosmos—but still, marrying what he had seen in that footage, what he’d thought was primal, instinctual, with the new knowledge that the thing is sentient sends a cold strike down Tony’s spine.

Peter nods. “Venom.”

Well, that isn’t ominous at all.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“No,” Peter says, sharply. “No, I don’t want you getting involved. I didn’t even want Johnny getting involved, but he’s… well, annoyingly persistent. And admittedly useful at times. I’m handling it, okay? I’ve got this. I’m going to figure it out.”

Tony holds his gaze for a moment. Everything in him wants to push, wants to insist on suit upgrades or weapons or even passing it off to the main-team Avengers, but he sees the determination in Peter’s eyes and remembers: he’s not fifteen anymore. 

_I forget how young he still is,_ May had said, but sitting here now, Tony can’t help but acknowledge how much he’s grown. 

“Okay,” he relents. “Just… watch your back, will you? This... _thing_...” He can’t keep the revulsion out of his voice. All that black, oozing and creeping, it fills his brain, fills him with fear for Peter, lying there with all evidence of the viciousness this thing is capable of plain to see. 

“I didn’t know what it was before,” Peter says, “or what it could do. I do now. This isn’t going to happen next time.”

Tony feels his mouth go dry at the very notion of a _next time,_ but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Besides,” Peter goes on, “Johnny’s helping me now.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better about the whole thing, you’re doing a bang up job.”

“If you’re trying to make me change my mind about the whole thing, so are you,” Peter fires back, and then he flashes Tony a grin. It’s tired, a little thin, but it’s the first expression of happiness since the good drugs wore off that hasn’t looked put on or forced.

And it’s done away with in a heartbeat as Michelle rounds the doorway with Benji perched on her hip. 

Peter twists away quickly enough that the frame his leg is pinned into rattles. He inhales sharply at the pain that that causes, but keeps his back firmly to the door, hiding his face. “MJ, no. No.”

Michelle freezes halfway across the room. She throws Tony a worried glance. He throws her one straight back, completely lost.

“What?” she asks.

“I said not to bring him,” Peter says to the wall. “I _said_.”

“What? I...I didn’t think you were being serious.” Michelle’s face starts to flush. “Pete, he’s been asking for you for days. I—come on. Look, he’s okay. And we’re here now, can’t you just—”

“MJ, I said no. Please.”

“Daddy,” whines Benji, and Peter flinches at the sound, but doesn’t relent. Michelle’s expression turns flat.

“Peter, are you kidding me right now?”

Peter just shakes his head. “Please take him out. Please just—”

“Fine,” Michelle says. She turns on her heel and holds Benji out towards Tony, who blinks at her.

“Me?”

“Yes. Please.”

Tony has known Pepper long enough to know not to argue with a woman using that tone—clipped politeness a thin crust over boiling magma. He clears his throat as he stands. Holds out his arms. “Okaaaaay. C’mon, sprog. Let’s give mom and dad some time to talk.”

He settles Benji against his hip and makes a speedy exit, throwing a sympathetic look Peter’s way before Michelle closes the door behind them. Benji squirms as Tony carries him to the row of seats against the wall in the hallway, and put down on his own chair, uses the back of it to pull himself up, trying to look through the window into his dad’s room. Tony grabs him under the arms and plonks him down on his lap instead. 

“Uh-uh, privacy time, kiddo.”

Benji gripes a little, but it doesn’t last long. With this new perspective, he shifts his attention to Tony’s hand—the prosthetic one, though thanks to nearly a decade of advancement in Wakandan tech and Tony’s own tinkering, no one who didn’t already know that would be able to tell. Little baby fingers grasp at synthetic ones as Benji turns Tony’s hand over, like he’s inspecting it. Tony looks down at the top of his head, at the mess of thick curls there, the same colour as Peter’s, same twists as Michelle’s.

“You okay, squirt?”

Benji begins carefully prying Tony’s fingers apart one by one. “Yeah.” 

Tony nods. “Yeah course you are. You know your dad loves you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. Good. And you know he wants to see you, too. He’s just—uh...” Tony pauses. How to word this to a two year old. How did Pepper approach it with Morgan all those years ago? “Well, he’s a little hurt right now.”

“I know.”

Tony blinks. He’s always a little unnerved by how smart and well-adjusted the little tyke is, but he supposes he shouldn’t be, given whose kid he is. “Huh. Okay, well. Good.”

They sit in the quiet for a moment. The sound of the discussion in the room to their backs is muffled by the soundproofing in the walls, but the frustration in it is clear, and not for the first time Tony finds himself wondering if Benji inherited Peter’s super hearing. The kid’s a little young still to be able to express what for him will have probably always been the norm, and curious though Tony might be about the kid’s genetic make-up, he’s respected Peter and Michelle’s wishes to let Benji develop at his own pace—no expectations—at least until he starts school. For now, they have no real way of knowing whether any spider-related quirks made it into the gene pool, but Tony hums a little under his breath anyway. Just in case.

When Benji moves his ministrations to Tony’s sleeve, pulling gently at the fabric, his little fingers wiggling under the cuff, Tony snorts.

“Oh, I see,” he says, reaching over and rolling the sleeve up to his elbow. “This what you want, huh?” 

To the sound of Benji’s excited “Yeah”, he taps his watch a couple of times, lets the seamless flesh-and-blood colour flow out of his arm, leaving behind a blank white. A perfect canvas. 

He pulls up a colour wheel. 

“What’ll it be today, Picasso? Red, blue, purple?”

“Yeah,” Benji says again, in that little breathless excited way toddlers do.

Tony thinks for a second. “Purple it is.”

By the time the door to Peter’s room opens and Michelle steps into the hallway, looking harried and quite frankly, upset, Tony’s arm is covered from elbow to fingertip in splotches of various colours. Benji is dragging his pointer finger over the inside of Tony’s forearm, finishing off an artistic rendition of what Tony thinks is supposed to be the sun, except pink.

Michelle closes the door behind her, leans against it and lets out a frustrated sigh that blows her hair off of her face.

Tony quirks an eyebrow. “Went well, then?”

She throws him a sideways glance that says it all, then rolls her head against the door to face him. She looks down at Benji, down at Tony’s arm. When she looks back up, her mouth twitches. “Cute.”

Tony shrugs. 

“Eh. Kid’s a natural. Must get it from his mom.”

Michelle’s eyes turn soft. She reaches a hand out to ruffle through Benji’s hair. Quietly, she says, “I don’t understand why he has to be so stubborn about things that don’t make any sense.”

“Well, I mean they don’t call them the terrible twos for nothing.”

Michelle gives him a look. “Tony.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“This isn’t going to be a quick fix,” Michelle says. “You heard what the doctors said: he’s going to be in here for a while—a couple of weeks at least for the leg. He can’t not see Benji all that time—that’s stupid. I know he knows it’s stupid, too, he just...ugh.”

Benji lifts his head, blinking up at Michelle, then looking past her to the closed door. “Daddy?”

Michelle shakes her head. “Not right now, Benj, no. Daddy’s really tired.” Her voice is soft but her eyes are tight. “How about you and me go and get something to eat, and then we’ll come and see him later?”

“Ice cream?”

“Hmm, bit early for that I think, but Grammy might be open to making some pancakes if we ask nicely. What do you say?”

“Yeah, pancakes.”

“Thought so.” Michelle taps Benji’s nose. She looks to Tony. “We’ll be at my parents’ for a few hours. Do you think you can talk to him?”

Tony blinks. “What, no pancakes for me?”

“Nice try.” To Benji: “Okay, you wanna walk or ride, trouble?”

“Walk,” Benji answers decidedly, clambering down from Tony’s lap. Tony puts a hand out to steady him as he finds his footing. 

“You want to walk, you have to hold my hand,” says Michelle. 

“I know.”

“He knows a lot, today,” Tony says. 

Michelle scoffs, a wry smile forming on her face. “Yeah? Wonder who he gets _that_ from.”

She takes Benji’s hand, stuffs his arms into his little winter coat, and unparks the stroller from where it’s sitting at the side of the hallway. Before she leaves, she turns to Tony.

“Please talk some sense into my husband?”

Now it’s Tony’s turn for a wry smile. “I’ve been trying for the last decade. What makes you think I’m gonna stop striking out now?”

Michelle rolls her eyes, but a small smile tugs at her lips before she turns to go.

Gathering himself, Tony stands, tapping his watch and saving Benji’s artwork to the usual folder before setting his arm back to its everyday, neutral appearance. He takes a deep breath, and then he’s opening the door to Peter’s room. 

Peter is quick to turn his face away, though not before Tony catches sight of wet, red-rimmed eyes. He steps inside. “Just me, Underoos.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Tony sighs. He crosses the room, lowers himself into the chair at Peter’s bedside. “Well, that’s too bad, I guess. I got a lot of free time and nowhere I have to be. Thought we could have a little conversation.”

A scoff. An angry swipe of a hand over wet cheeks. “You mean MJ asked you to convince me that I’m being an idiot and I should stop being so stubborn.”

“Did you hear that or did you just guess?”

“I heard it. And I know my wife.”

“Then you also know I’ve got a lot riding on my shoulders here. Help an old guy out?” 

Peter glances sideways at him. Tony does his best to look earnest. “Seriously, Pete, what’s going on?”

Peter takes a breath, lets it out slow. “Benji,” he says.

“Yeah, I figured. What about him?”

“I don’t—” Peter cuts himself off. He sets his jaw, looks away.

“You know, one perk of that thing on your leg is that you can’t run away. So, you can talk, or you can just listen. It’s up to you.”

Peter remains silent for a moment, and then, he relents. In a quiet voice, he says, “I just… I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Is that all? 

“Pete, he’s already seen you like this.”

“I know,” Peter says, sounding absolutely wretched. “That’s even worse. He’s only two. He shouldn’t have to see his dad covered in blood or bruises or...or...held together by like, a million screws.”

“Well, no. But he should still get to see his dad, don’t you think?” In the silence that follows, Tony adds, “Unless it’s that you don't want to see him?”

Peter’s head swivels in his direction, and Tony can see in his eyes that he’s hit the nail on the head. There’s shame there, and more than a heavy dose of guilt. Tony can almost see Peter’s shoulders bowing under the weight of it.

“I don’t deserve to see him.”

Tony nods. “Okay, I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I see now those drugs have started to kick back in. They’re messing with your brain. We’ll pick this up another time.”

“I’m not _high,_ ” Peter snaps.

“Well you’re not making any sense, either. ‘Don’t deserve to see him’. Kid, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about crashing into my house covered in blood, right in front of my two year old son,” Peter says.

“Who Michelle told you was okay. Pete, he was doodling sunshine and rainbows out in the hall.” Tony pulls up the arm design. “Look at this, does this look like the work of a distressed kid?”

“Tony, you don’t get it!”

“Enlighten me, then, won’t you?”

An angry huff of breath. Peter turns away, face hard and shoulders tense. Tony waits. The anger is quick to fade away, but the tight way Peter is holding himself remains. 

“I...” Peter swallows, like what he’s trying to say is lodged in his throat. When he tries again, his voice is quiet. Strained. “I watched my uncle die right in front of me.”

Tony’s stomach twists.

_Oh._

He’s an idiot. He’s such an idiot. His brain had touched on this the other day with May, but with Peter, it appears he’s been woefully slow to connect the dots. 

Peter looks up. “He raised me, and I watched him die. And you, too, nearly.” He shakes his head. “When you put the gauntlet on…Tony, that was awful. I don’t… I don’t want to do that to Benji. I _can’t_ do that to Benji. God, it’s the worst thing I can think of. But...I can’t give up being Spider-man either.” 

“Pete...”

“I know it’s not fair to him. Or to MJ. It’s selfish, I know that. People literally try to kill me all the time. I mean, every time I walk out that door I know there’s a chance I might not come back, but it doesn’t stop me. I still go. I still _want_ to go. How am I supposed to look him in the face and tell him everything is going to be okay when I know I’ll be right back out there the second this stupid thing is off my leg? What kind of dad does that make me?”

Peter isn’t really looking for an answer to that—it’s clear he’s already made up his mind. For someone so smart, at times, he can be incredibly stupid.

“Do you think it made me a bad dad, putting that stupid glove on when I had Morgan waiting for me back at home? When I had you?”

Peter’s head whips up so fast. He looks shocked. Affronted, even. “What? No. No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Your uncle didn’t have to try and stop that robbery. Do you think what happened to him made _him_ a bad dad?”

A sharp intake of breath. This is territory Tony rarely treads, and with good reason, but he has a point to make, and he’s pulling out the big guns for it.

“Of _course_ not.” 

Tony nods. “Then why do you think it makes you?”

That shuts the kid up. He presses his lips together, turns his face away.

“You _love_ Benji, Pete. Literally anyone can see that. And he adores you. You’re a great dad. What you’re doing out there? You’re doing it for him. For the world he’s going to grow up in. That’s the opposite of selfish, if you ask me.”

“It’s not that simple, Tony,” Peter says, shaking his head. “If something happened to me...”

Tony holds the reflexive _nothing’s going to happen to you_ on the back of his tongue. When Peter was younger, he would have said it without question, but he’s not a kid anymore, despite the moniker sticking around. They both know all-too-well that such a thing isn’t certain. 

“If something were to happen to you, Benji would remember that you loved him. And if he ever forgot, he’d have me, and Michelle, and May, and Pepper, and just about anyone who’s ever met you to remind him. I’m not going to sit here and try and say that’s a consolation to you not being there, it isn’t. It couldn’t ever be. But he would know. He’d know you were his dad, that you did what you thought was right and that everything you did, you were doing for him.”

Tony had hoped as much for his own legacy, when he was lying on the war-torn battleground that had once been his home all those years ago. In those moments when things hadn’t looked so good for him, in the stillness after the storm, after the snap of fingers that had obliterated an army and an arm, he’d hoped that those he loved would have understood that he wasn’t sorry—only sorry for leaving them, and for the grief that would trail in his wake. He’d hoped they would know and remember _why._

Quietly, Peter says, “That’s not enough.”

Tony flexes his fingers, feeling the weight of the prosthesis. The weight of good fortune, fate dealing a kinder card. “No. But it’s a lot.”

Peter doesn't say anything for a long time. “Is he sad?” he asks eventually. “I don’t want him to be sad.”

“He misses you. He just wants to see you.”

Peter fiddles with the bedsheet. “Like this, though?” he asks. “He’s so little, and I’m...well, I’m a lot fucked up right now. I don’t want to scare him.”

“Guarantee he’ll just be happy to have a hug, little leech that he is. A _careful_ hug.”

Peter lets out a short laugh. “Yeah,” he says. He looks at Tony. “I just...I don’t want to mess him up.”

“Well I guess that’s the secret. Everyone messes their kids up a little. But if anyone was gonna get the whole thing right, I’d put my money on you and Michelle.”

“You think?”

Tony pats Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t need to think. Now what say we call your beautiful wife and get her back here, huh?”

* * *

They’ve inclined the head of the bed ever-so-slightly, so Peter is sitting up more than lying down when Michelle comes in with Benji this time. 

“Hi,” he says as Michelle approaches, Benji perched on her hip and staring at Peter with wide unblinking eyes. Peter smiles. “It’s okay, Benj. Don’t be scared.”

“It’s just daddy,” Michelle tells the little boy when he buries himself in a little closer to her side. “Look, just daddy, see?”

She waits until Benji relaxes, until he nods, then she brings him closer to the bed. She pauses another moment to let him grow accustomed to the sight of Peter, and when all seems to be okay, lowers him gently down. “Be careful, okay? Daddy’s still really sore. Watch those little feet.”

“He’s okay,” Peter says, smiling softly as he curls his good arm around his son to draw him in closer. He looks at Benji, whose eyes are trailing over the green and yellow bruising of his dad’s face. “We’re good, aren’t we, buddy?” 

Benji sits up, reaches out a chubby hand towards Peter’s face and very gently touches the rainbow of colours under his eye. “Ouch,” he says, solemnly, which draws a faint laugh out of Peter.

“Yeah, ouch,” Peter agrees. His eyes grow misty through his smile, his voice thick. “Big ouch. But I’m okay. I’ve got Benji here to make it better, now, haven’t I?”

Benji nods. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Come here.”

Benji sits back on his heels, then he lies down, settling carefully under Peter’s arm, up against his side. “Daddy,” he says, laying his head on Peter’s chest, and that’s all it takes for the tears to spill over. Peter presses his cheek against Benji’s hair, wetting the curls.

“I love you, buddy,” he says. “I love you.” He looks up, and to MJ, he mouths, ”Sorry.”

Her answering smile is fond. It says there’s nothing to forgive. She shakes her head, and takes his hand.

* * *

A couple of hours later, Tony and Michelle sit together in the visitor chairs, Benji and Peter have both long fallen asleep.

“I’ve got another thing I need to say thank you for, I guess,” says Michelle, watching her husband and son breathe in tandem, curled up together on the bed. 

“I told you before, we’re not doing that.”

“You also said I could have anything I needed,” Michelle reminds him.

He breathes a laugh. “I did, didn’t I?” He glances sideways. Smiles. “You’re welcome.”

Michelle rolls her eyes. She looks back towards her boys, clearing her throat. “Okay, as cute as this is, I’m going to have to take the little munchkin home. He needs a bath and if he sleeps any longer now he’s gonna drive me crazy all night.”

She rises from her chair, leaning down over the bed to scoop up her son—

—and lets out a startled laugh, instead, a little hysterical sounding.

“What?” Tony says.

“I...” Michelle shakes her head. “Just come here, look.”

Tony climbs out of the chair, wincing at the cracks and pops that ring out from all over his body as he does, and feeling grateful that Michelle is too distracted at present to comment on them.

“What?” he asks again. Everything looks normal. Peter is sleeping and Benji is curled up against his uninjured side, arm thrown across his dad’s chest.

Michelle glances at him, lips pulled in between her teeth, like she’s trying not to laugh, and then wordlessly, she slides her fingers under Benji’s arm and lifts.

“Huh,” Tony says as Benji’s hand—relaxed, open flat and fingers splayed—pulls Peter’s hospital gown up and away with it.

“Huh,” Michelle echoes.

“Guess that answers at least one question that’s been burning away in my brain for the past two and a half years.”

“Guess it does,” says Michelle, sounding a little spaced out. “Doesn’t answer the next one, though.”

Tony looks at her, brows raised in question. “The next one?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Who’s going to be the one to tell Peter?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading!
> 
> If you knew how much I stressed over this, you'd definitely leave a little comment! (Please?) :)
> 
> Love you all <3


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